


Cast Some Light, You'll be Alright

by auxanges



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Classical Music, Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Synesthesia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-05-05 19:08:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5387039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auxanges/pseuds/auxanges
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Asahi's competition days are behind him. Nishinoya's competition days need something more to them.<br/>alternative title: the musician au no one asked for</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> cartwheels into the hq tag with my first fic (that isnt like 700 words lol) this is a gift for my friend [ainsil!](http://ainsil.tumblr.com) she's helped me out a lot this year, and also dragged me into asanoya hell so this is my vengeance...you are welcome  
> tags will be added as needed! enjoy my self indulgence, merry christmas in advance!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s so fucking tall. Nishinoya is pretty sure his mouth is hanging open: this guy’s gotta be, what, six feet? Eight? His hair’s pulled away from his face, revealing wide eyes that look down at Noya as if anticipating something.

Nishinoya’s life changes on a Friday. He catalogues it as any other Friday, though, with the shrill, tinny ring of his alarm; the familiar smell of hair gel; cold hands wrapped around a cup of burnt coffee. (Only his third cup of the week—a reward of sorts for not succumbing to cabin fever in every class.)

He’s still blinking away sleep with varying degrees of success when Tanaka slides into the seat beside him. “What’d I miss?”

Noya rolls his eyes and gives him a playful smack: if there’s one thing he can count on Tanaka for, it’s making his own tardiness look like the work of a god. (Bonus points: complete mission “Haul Ass To Class” in under five minutes—an achievement that, if it existed, would have Noya and Tanaka among the top rankings worldwide.) “Prof can’t get the projector working again. There’s a bet going around on how long it’s gonna take him.”

Tanaka yawns. “Long enough for me to sleep some more?”

“I’ll take those odds.”

The projector flickers to life no less than ten minutes later: Noya doesn’t bother waking Tanaka, who’s already dead to the world again. Damn, that’s impressive.

He catches every fourth word or so – something something symphony, something something something allegro – and writes what he can in barely legible chicken scratch, to be squinted at later. It’s not that he doesn’t _like_ music class, it’s—well, okay, maybe. Nishinoya gets enough of that outside of school, thank you very much. Every minute his hands are busy scribbling half-assed notes is a minute he could be practicing, or playing video games, or practicing a song from a video game.

Hey. He’s only human.

The scraping of chairs jolts Noya from his reverie: Tanaka snaps to attention, wiping drool off his face. “ _Great_ lecture, Teach!” he exclaims, grabbing his unopened book.

“Save it.” Noya slides his own book off the desk into his bag as he heads for the door, looking over his shoulder. “You’ve been using that line for years, Ryu, no prof actually believes y—”

His chiding is cut off when he collides face-first with a wall that he knows wasn’t there before. Nishinoya reels back, rocking on his heels for balance and shifting his gaze upward.

The wall isn’t a wall at all—walls don’t usually look that nervous.

“Sorry! Sorry! I wasn’t looking and I didn’t see you…”

He’s so fucking tall. Nishinoya is pretty sure his mouth is hanging open: this guy’s gotta be, what, six feet? Eight? His hair’s pulled away from his face, revealing wide eyes that look down at Noya as if anticipating something.

Oh. “’s fine,” Noya mumbles, when he remembers he has the use of his vocal cords. He straightens a little, reflexively. “Uh, I gotta—”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, sure,” the literal giant mutters, his earlier worry seeping from his voice and taking away his volume with it. He shifts to one side and carefully shuffles past him; his elbow brushes against Noya’s arm.

Nishinoya doesn’t realize he’s still in the doorway.

“…oya…hey! Noya! You’re blocking the path! We gotta go!” Tanaka elbows him in the ribs. Noya shoves him back with a laugh, and the encounter is all but forgotten.

*

Asahi doesn’t much care for Fridays. His schedule can be recited in one breath – showerbreakfastclassclasslunchclasspianolessonhomeworkdinnersleep – and routine that comes as easy as breathing is no cause for complaint. Asahi cares for surprises even less than he cares for Fridays.

So when he almost mows down a kid right before his second class of the day, Asahi’s schedule and his breath both seem to escape him.

He barely makes eye contact with the other guy: it’s not the first time he’s collided with another student, and he’s sure it won’t be the last. So why did this one get to him so much? What was it about some stranger from another class that had gotten to Asahi in the split-second they had connected?

A tap on his shoulder makes Asahi jerk up with a surprised yelp. His pen slips, and a jagged line appears across his classic lit notes. “Hey!”

Beside him, Suga grins innocently. “Just making sure you’re not sleeping with your eyes open again.” He taps his own notes with his pen: Asahi’s a page behind.

“For the last time, that didn’t _actually_ happen,” Asahi protests under his breath, leaning over to decipher his friend’s loopy cursive. “Daichi played it up, it was first year—”

“Asahi.” Suga raises an eyebrow. “You’re almost more frazzled than usual. Everything cool?”

Asahi doesn’t respond right away, instead focusing on copying Suga’s notes as neatly as possible. Of course everything is cool. Why wouldn’t it be? Asahi hasn’t done anything but accidentally bump into what was probably a caffeine-sedated first year. Ten seconds of schedule shift. Showerbreakfastclassbumpclasslunchclasspiano—

“Asahi?”

“Cool!” he blurts out, a little too loudly: a dark-haired kid in front of him turns in his chair with a look of mild alarm.

Suga flashes him a smile. “Those Greeks. Can’t get enough.”

The student shrugs and turns back in his seat. Asahi mouths an embarrassed but sincere ‘thanks’ before burying his face in his classwork. Suga, goddamn saint that he is, remains quiet until the professor dismisses them and they part ways.

“Pick you up at your dorm?”

“Sure.”

Asahi trudges along with the crowd to the cafeteria. He doesn’t have much of an appetite: he seldom does on Fridays, at least until after his lesson. Suga would fuss over it in high school, and Asahi would insist that he’s fine, please keep your snack, he’s got a juicebox or something somewhere, he’s pretty sure.

He grabs a paper cup and is filling it with diet Coke when he sees him again. Laughing about something as he walks with his friend, a sandwich in one hand and a case in the other—a violin? Maybe, judging from the size, but then again it’s pretty small so it could be—

Something cold hits his hand: Asahi’s drink is overflowing. He pulls back with a grimace, suddenly very much aware of how _creepy_ he’s being—he has no idea who this guy is. There are thousands of people at this school, he likely won’t see him again.

By the time Asahi cleans up his mess and fastens a lid on his cup, the other boy is gone.

*

The minute Suga’s text comes in informing him that he’s in the parking lot, Asahi’s spirits are lifted. He grabs his messenger bag full of sheet music and pencils, and shrugs into a coat while halfway out the door. He drops himself in the passenger seat of Suga’s car with a sigh, letting his head fall against the backrest.

Suga laughs as he turns the ignition. “That long a day, huh?”

Asahi waves noncommittally in reply.

“Did y—”

“Yes.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to ask!” Suga gives his arm a lighthearted punch.

“Sure I do. You were asking if I had something to eat.” Asahi grins as he pulls out a muffin from his bag.

Suga scoffs at the road, but the corners of his mouth are turned up.

It’s not a very long ride to the library where Asahi takes his piano lessons. Suga’s got a part-time gig at the adjacent coffee shop: his apron and nametag are in the back seat. They ride in silence for a while before Suga speaks again. “I saw a poster for a winter concert the other day.”

Asahi freezes.

“It’s still a few months away,” Suga continues, his tone careful, “I just thought you could talk to your teach—”

“No.” Asahi’s voice is thick. “No competitions.”

Red light. Suga looks over at him: his eyes are soft, apologetic. “It’s not a competition…”

“I don’t care.” Asahi turns to the window. “I’m not changing my answer, Suga. I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

Suga’s firm, but free of any real malice. Asahi sighs, busying himself with fixing his hairband.

“Just…think about it, okay? Talk to your teacher.”

“Fine,” Asahi says, with as little conviction as humanly possible. For Suga, it’s enough, and he claps a warm hand on Asahi’s shoulder as they pull into the library’s lot.

“Hey, Asahi?”

He turns, one hand on the door. “Yeah?”

“Relax. You think too much.” Suga waves through the window before reversing into his usual spot.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Asahi mutters to the empty air.

*

For all the thinking he does, the hour and a half that Asahi spends at the piano on the library’s second floor is blissfully short on racing thoughts. Even the warm-up alone alleviates some of the day’s pressure: Asahi’s train of thought can’t keep up with the tempo his teacher sets for scales, and so they’re left behind, to dwell on later. Asahi’s teacher, to his relief, doesn’t mention any concert. He knows he promised Suga, but he needs to think about it, like _really_ think. And right now, all Asahi wants to think about is this codetta.

His time is up before he’s like it to be, and after a final run through a nocturne and a thank-you, Asahi gathers his things. Suga’s got a few more hours of his shift: maybe he’ll grab a drink and read something until he’s done.

Asahi opens the door and almost crashes into a student for the second time that day. Only this one he knows, all hopeful smiles and unruly orange hair.

“Hey, Hinata.”

“Asahi!”

Hinata’s books are tucked under his arm: Asahi recognizes some of the pieces. The kid’s really good, homeschooled from some small town, he thinks. His lesson is right after Asahi’s, and sometimes he brings his boyfriend, a cranky-looking violinist—

Wait a second.

“Hinata,” Asahi repeats hesitantly, “do you ever go to Kageyama’s recitals?”

“Sure!” the younger boy chirps. “Last month, he played a trio, I got to play the piano part, it was by this Russian guy—Rack…Rach, uh…”

“That sounds, uh, great.” Asahi reaches to brush hair from his face, remembers he’s wearing a headband, and drops his hand again. “I was wondering if you’ve ever seen someone there? He’s about—well, about your height, with hair that sticks up like—” he pantomimes the hairstyle he’d almost dented.

Hinata’s eyebrows knit together in thought before he snaps his fingers. “You mean Nishinoya? He’s _good_ , I heard him compete last year and his fingers moved so. Fast. And he got the bow to move like zingzingzing, and at the—” 

But Asahi isn’t listening anymore.

Nishinoya. He has a name to the face. Somehow, it doesn’t make him feel much better.

*

“A concert?”

Tanaka nods, not looking away from the TV screen. “I saw it on a poster somewhere. Can’t remember—oh fuck, I think a guard detected me.”

“Climb the building,” Noya suggests, crossing his legs under him on the couch. They’re in Tanaka’s dorm, eating cold pizza and avoiding homework for as long as they can. “Huh. I guess I’ll ask about it. Is there a catch?”

“No catch,” Tanaka replies. His hands move a little with the controller when he maneuvers the assassin on the screen. “I thought you liked competing—what the _dick_ , he shot me off the building!”

“Block. And I do like competing. Concerts and competitions aren’t the same thing—I said _block_! Wrong button!”

“God, Noya, you’re such a backseat player!”

“I’m saving your life here, buddy.” Noya takes a thoughtful bite of his pizza. “I dunno. I just…don’t see the point of concerts if you don’t get anything out of it.”

Tanaka raises an eyebrow, his character perched on the ledge of a roof. “Fun, maybe?”

“C’mon, that’s not fair, you know what I mean.” Noya sinks back into the pillows. “It’s not…challenging. I guess. Challenges are more _fun_.” He mimics Tanaka on the last word with a smirk.

“You’ll regret it more if you don’t play,” Tanaka points out.

Nishinoya sighs, taking another bite. “You’re right. I’ll—oh my _God_ , you dumbass, you’re supposed to land in the haybale! How did you even _miss?_ ”

“You were distracting me!” Tanaka snatches the half-eaten slice from his hand, pausing the game and turning. “But hey—I remember where I saw it. You know the coffee shop beside the library?”

“You really think I go to the library?”

“Touché.” Tanaka shrugs. “Wanna go have a look? Maybe you can find more info on it.”

Noya grins. “You just want a cake pop.”

“I _mostly_ want a cake pop. But I also want to see my dearest friend and prodigious musician kick some ass.”

“Prodigious. That’s, like, a tenth grade level word, I’m very impressed.”

Tanaka shoves him, and Noya tips over on the couch with a laugh. “Grab your bus pass. Also, can I borrow some money for a cake pop?”

“Unbelievable.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> like I said, this is my first real hq fic so the characters are new to write...if you have any feedback I'd love to hear it here or on tumblr @auxanges! finger guns


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An idea pops into his head, then, fast and loud like a firecracker. It burns on his tongue along with the coffee: he wrestles with the idea of voicing it. But he barely knows this guy. It would be weird. Freak him out, probably. No, definitely, it would definitely freak him out, considering how jumpy he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey remember this  
> sorry for such a slow update! this semester's been busy for me and midterms are in full swing. i'll try to keep things pretty consistent though!

The coffee shop is pleasantly warm compared to the breeze outside and the cranked A/C of the bus. Boards line the wall behind the counter, covered in colourful writing describing menu items and student specials.

Tanaka bounds over to the counter, gesturing to the cake pops in the display. The barista, one of the prettiest guys Noya has ever seen (and he’s seen his share of pretty guys), smiles knowingly and rings up the order.

Nishinoya’s eyes move from the boards to a wall plastered with posters: that must be what Tanaka had been talking about. He squints at it, trying to tell the eccentric fonts apart, distractedly ordering a mocha. Nothing really catches his eye, though, as he pulls out a handful of change to pay.

“I’ll call you up when your drink is ready,” the barista tells him. His nametag says “SUGA” in block letters, complete with an exclamation point and a happy face.

“Thanks.” Noya leans on the counter and plays with a stir stick. There are a few more students in the shop, hunched over notebooks and poring over study guides. Noya doesn’t envy them for a second. A splash of colour catches his eye, though—he missed a poster. It’s on one of the tables, in the hands of a familiar figure; he’s staring at the paper as it if might grow jaws and bite him square in his ruggedly handsome face.

…wait, what?

Nishinoya blinks. The nervous wall. It’s the same guy! He pushes off the counter and shoves his hands in his pockets, approaching the table with as much care as he would a stray cat on the sidewalk. “Can I see that?”

Despite his deliberate, very best un-Noya-like approach, the nervous wall jerks up and drops the poster, almost tipping over his own drink in the process. Nishinoya’s hand darts out of his pocket and steadies the cup before it can spill.

“Sorry. Here, I was done with it. I think.” The taller boy runs a hand through his hair awkwardly: it’s still in a ponytail, the way Noya saw it earlier. It looks soft, and he has to resist the urge to check his own hair.

Instead, he picks up the poster by opposite corners, scanning partly for Tanaka’s sake, but also out of curiosity.

“Do you play?” He asks, looking up.

The nervous wall takes a hesitant sip from his cup. It smells fruity; raspberries or something. “Yes.”

Nishinoya waits for elaboration. When it’s clear he won’t get any, he prods a little more. “I play the violin. Thirteen years. I stopped using a half size in second year of high school, though.”

That makes the wall crack a little, and the resulting shy smile is so dazzling he almost misses the call of “mocha for Nishinoya!” from the counter.

He holds up a finger in a ‘one sec’ motion, doubling back to get his coffee. Tanaka hands him a lid. “Who’s that?”

“I think he almost ran me over after class this morning,” Noya replies between puffs to cool his mocha.

“Arousing.”

“Glad you agree. Now eat your cake pop.” Noya snaps the lid in place and snakes through the tables a third time.

“Nishinoya, right?” the wall asks. His voice is low, as if he’s afraid he’ll spook someone with it. He takes another sip of his drink before continuing. “Sorry I almost knocked you over today.”

“S’okay. Not the first time I’ve been below someone’s eye level, uh…” Nishinoya cranes his neck to read the name printed on the side of the other boy’s cup. “Azumane?”

The wall’s cheeks turn pink; they match his tea, which he quickly raises again in an attempt to hide the blush. “Asahi is fine.”

 _Asahi_. Noya keeps the name under his tongue like a secret. He takes a long drink, looking over the poster for the concert again. His coffee is still too hot, and he almost burns his tongue.

“Piano.”

Noya stops, his cup still halfway to his lips. “Eh?”

“I play the piano. Fourteen years.” Asahi’s downcast eyes meet his for the briefest moment, warm with an honesty that takes him aback a little. “Just for fun, though,” he adds hastily, taking another sip. (They’re tiny fucking sips—how long has he been drinking that?) His shoulders deflate, as if the confession took something out of him.

“Fun,” Noya echoes.

An idea pops into his head, then, fast and loud like a firecracker. It burns on his tongue along with the coffee: he wrestles with the idea of voicing it. But he barely knows this guy. It would be weird. Freak him out, probably. No, definitely, it would definitely freak him out, considering how jumpy he is.

“You know what would be fun?”

Too bad Nishinoya rarely plays it safe.

Asahi looks slowly up at him, suspicion clear as day on his tanned face. “What would be fun,” he echoes slowly.

Noya bends over the table, leaning on his elbows so they’re at eye level. “A duet.”

The look on Asahi’s face, he thinks, would be more appropriate if Nishinoya had suggested cannonballing into shark-infested waters, or running a mile on Legos barefoot. “A duet.”

“You repeat things a lot, Asahi,” Noya says cheerfully; the name is pleasant on his lips. “But yeah. I haven’t played one in ages.” Only a partial lie—it feels like ages since Nishinoya has played with someone new, someone interesting to him. And every second with this six foot bundle of caffeinated nerves only adds to his growing curiosity.

If Asahi is interested, he has a funny way of showing it: more of a deer-in-the-headlights, hand-in-the-cookie-jar kind of way. “I don’t think—I mean, uh.” His eyes look everywhere but Noya’s face, darting to the wall, the poster, before desperately landing on the barista at the counter, who looks up and shrugs, oblivious to his plight. He tries again. “You’ve never even heard me play.”

“Then lemme hear you play,” Nishinoya replies immediately, “nothing to it.”

“There’s something to it,” Asahi insists, nerves making the deep timbre of his voice creep up the octave. It’s almost cute.

Noya sighs. “You got a pen?”

Asahi’s eyes finally meet his, confusion melting away the unease in golden brown irises. “A pen?”

“Yeah, I hear they use them to write with.” Nishinoya grabs the poster and flips it over, reaching for the pen Asahi seems to have produced out of thin air. He scribbles his name and number as legibly as humanly possible and slams the writing tool down on the table triumphantly. “Text me when you’ve given it some thought. I wanna hear you.”

He picks up his mocha and turns to go when Asahi calls, “why?”

Noya grins over his shoulder. “Anyone who’s been playing for that long has to be good.”

He grabs Tanaka and they run for the next bus, leaving Asahi in a similar state Noya found him in, staring at a poster with a cold cup of tea beside him.

*

Asahi’s fingers drum absently against his blank homework assignment. If he were to wager a guess, he’d say it’s been about fifty minutes since he told himself he would get to work on it: in that time, he’s gone to the bathroom once, refilled a glass of water three times and thought about his coffee shop encounter pretty much the rest of the duration.

Nishinoya had reached his chest, but his presence was so…big. Asahi felt minuscule compared to him, despite sitting in his too-small chair with his knees banging the underside of the table. He filled the room, bright-eyed and stubbornly wanting to be heard.

Well, he’d been heard. Asahi’s phone sits in wait on his desk, the clock flashing almost accusingly.

Asahi groans to himself and sits back heavily in his chair; his legs knock against the desk in the process and he swears under his breath. He needs kneepads or something.

Noya’s words had almost mirrored Suga’s. The difference is that he and Suga had grown up together—he knew Asahi’s self-preservation tactics. Nishinoya—well, Nishinoya had blasted a hole right through them and zeroed in on Asahi. It’s left him with an unusual feeling, curled up in his chest and waiting to be named. So far, the options are _vulnerable_ , _dumb_ , and _chicken_. Asahi isn’t sure which one is the best, and his homework is providing no helpful hints.

He can almost hear the other boy’s voice, laughing at his internal monologue, free of malice and full of curiosity. It sticks to Asahi like toffee, leaving him with more of a mess than he’d like.

And he had seemed sincere in wanting to hear him play. Asahi feels a pang of guilt: Nishinoya doesn’t know. There’s no way he could know why he can’t—

His phone alarm goes off, the quiet tritone breaking the spell of his own thoughts, and he hastily shuts it off. The phone stays in his hand, though, and he stares at the screen before reaching for the poster he’d shoved into his bag at the coffee shop.

Asahi turns it over and punches in the number.

*

Back at the dorm, Tanaka is sprawled out on the couch playing some handheld game, while Noya sits on the bed and absently flips through pages of his textbook. It’s an old copy; someone’s made a scavenger hunt in the margins. _Go to page 79. Go to page 211_.

“—all I’m saying is that you shouldn’t fuck with cake pops,” Tanaka is saying, eyes narrowed in concentration as he moves his units across a tiny battlefield. “They don’t need to be fancy. The cake is the essence of the pop. Without it, it’s just a pop, you know?”

“What did you think of Asahi?”

Tanaka looks up from his game: the enemy units take their turn. “Who?”

“The guy from the shop. Did you look up from deep throating your cake pop even once?” _Go to page 3._

“Ha-ha. You mean Hozier’s doppelganger? He’s okay, I guess, if you’re into the whole lumberjack thing.” Tanaka pauses. “Oh my god. Are you into the whole lumberjack thing?”

A character from the game dies, and the ensuing dramatic jingle fills the dorm. “Not what I meant.”

Tanaka shoots him A Look.

“He’s hot,” Nishinoya concedes, “but that’s not why I’m asking.” He doesn’t add that he has no idea if Asahi is even into…well, into that. One step at a time, or he blows any chances of getting to know him better. “He’s kinda funny. He’s all…jumpy and shit.”

“He looks like he shot Bambi’s mom,” Tanaka offers helpfully.

Noya mumbles an agreement, lost in thought. There must be a reason behind Asahi’s hesitation to play: a secret carefully guarded behind a curiously soft voice. He thumbs to page 40. A crudely drawn dick with a happy face, how original. Nishinoya shuts the textbook and tosses it onto Tanaka’s stomach.

“Critical hit!”

“Baby.” Noya’s phone dings and he grabs it from the desk. A text from a number he doesn’t recognize.

<hey. It’s asahi>

His eyes widen, but before he can type a reply his phone dings again.

<from the coffee shop?>

 _Ding_.

<i realized i didn’t give you my number back. sorry>

Noya has to resist the urge to laugh out loud. Tanaka leans over. “That him?”

“Yeah.”

He whistles. “I gotta be honest, I didn’t think he’d do it. You tend to come off a little strong, Yuu.”

“I waited ten minutes before giving him my number.”

“My mistake. Saintly patience, you’ve got there.”

Noya sticks out his tongue and punches a quick reply, reassuring Asahi he remembers him and has he given any thought to his request. Tanaka’s units bravely venture on in the background.

It seems like an eternity before his phone chimes again. <can you come to the library monday evening?>

Tanaka’s game plays a victory march. Noya lets himself fall back onto the pillow. The first piece of the puzzle is almost within arms’ reach.

<ill be there>

Nishinoya’s phone lands on the mattress beside him, silent once more, but his head is a cacophony of possibilities.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The instrument itself sits patiently, the lid closed for practice and the polished keys bared like the teeth of some tamed creature. Asahi can see the easiest, most natural positions for his hands to fall into, even as he carefully shuts the door behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's time to get some actual music in a music au  
> this is a guilty pleasure of mine... asahi's piece is liszt's liebestraum no.3 <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y4XEPdYO5mM>  
> the duet is mozart's violin sonata k304 <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DdDBeXK5c4g>  
> thank you again for all your kind comments and your PATIENCE!!! finals are just around the corner and i always write more in the summer so this fic is going to have more of my attention, in the meantime enjoy a self indulgent chapter

The weekend passes quickly and slowly all at once. For most of Saturday, Asahi buries himself in his psychology readings, listening to the muffled arguing of the students in the room next to his. They’re yelling about aliens, he thinks, or about which dinosaur was the best and could _totally_ kick the carnotaur’s ass. Asahi counts his blessings for the millionth time that he’d managed score a single dorm.

When it gets too dark to read without the lights on, Asahi begrudgingly leaves in search of food. The argument has migrated to the hallway, and both parties turn to him for the tie-breaker.

“Azumane! Who’d win, a giant shark or a T-Rex?”

Kuroo and Bokuto both stare pointedly, hands on their hips.

Asahi rubs his face with one hand. “In or out of water?”

“In water, duh,” Bokuto replies at the same time that Kuroo says, “land, obviously.”

“It sounds like you have lots to talk about.” Asahi smiles and ducks under flailing arms.

Kuroo calls, “Party next Friday! You’re gonna be there, right? And don’t you dare say—”

“I’ll think about it.” Asahi doubles his pace down the stairwell.

“C’mon, Azumane! What have you got to lose?”

*

Nishinoya spends Saturday night and Sunday morning running over every possible outcome of his Monday rendezvous. His roommate sits on the couch, painting his fingernails and watching Netflix on his laptop: the volume is turned down so the first-year can hear Noya’s train of thought in real time.

“…or he could ditch, and then I’d look like a complete tool!” Nishinoya whines, playing with a peeling sticker on his violin case.

Kenma barely looks up from his handiwork. “Your hair already has that going for you,” he points out.

“Look who’s talkin’!” Noya’s hand flies to his bangs nonetheless, making sure they’re satisfactorily spiky. “Or,” he continues, “he _could_ show up, then make some lame excuse about how he can’t play. Typical.”

A duck and a chicken wander across the screen to a laugh track. Kenma turns. “‘Typical?’ Haven’t you met him, like, once?”

“Once and a _half_ ,” Nishinoya corrects him. “Besides, if you met Asahi, you’d know what I mean, you freakishly perceptive child.”

“If you say so.” Kenma blows absently on his nails, now sporting an eye-catching shade of red. “So what are you gonna play?”

“I’m not playing,” Noya says, then claps a hand over his mouth. “Oh, shit. I’m not playing. I can’t _not_ play! It was my idea!”

“It’s only tomorrow, you have time to find someth—”

“Dammit, dammit, dammit,” Noya mutters, vaulting over the couch (and narrowly avoiding the open polish bottle) to rummage through his sheets.

“You’re overthinking your date, Nishinoya,” Kenma calls.

“Not a date!”

“Whatever.”

The episode ends, and the next is ushered in with the theme song. Noya fishes out three—no, four of his favourite pieces and leaves them on his dresser for the morning.

_So no one told you life was gonna be this way…_

Both roommates drop what they’re doing and _clap-clap-clap-clap_ on reflex. Kenma swears, sighs and reapplies polish to his fingers.

*

Asahi only has one class on Monday, which gives him the rest of the morning to worry about the library. He ties and unties his hair no less than five times before throwing on a cardigan. It’s raining; a misty thing that soothes Asahi’s nerves a little as he pushes the library door open with his shoulder, his bag awkwardly tucked under his arm.

The librarian at the front desk smiles over her glasses at him. Asahi practices here often, and sits in the comfortable silence between the bookshelves just as much, so the old ladies know him both by name and by repertoire. He raises his hand in a wave and is about to turn for the stairs when she asks, “Are you tutoring someone, Azumane?”

Asahi frowns. “No…?”

The librarian adjusts her glasses. “A boy came in not too long ago asking for you. It’s so nice of you to take in a child under your wing.”

“He’s not, uh—”

“Asahi!”

The bright, loud voice is so out of place in the library that Asahi almost cracks a smile. Nishinoya emerges from behind one of the computer desks; he’s got a violin case in tow, which somehow solidifies Asahi’s unease that there’s no backing out now.

Even more obvious, though, is the strained grin on Nishinoya’s face, which made Asahi suspect he’d heard the child remark.

“Nishinoya, glad you made it,” he says quickly, “I was worried your university class might run late.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches the silent “oops” on the poor librarian’s lips.

For his part, Noya’s chest puffs out a little, and he straightens, holding up his case. “Upstairs, then?”

“Upstairs.”

The piano is in a cozy soundproof room on the second floor. Light filters in despite the rain through floor-to-ceiling windows. The instrument itself sits patiently, the lid closed for practice and the polished keys bared like the teeth of some tamed creature. Asahi can see the easiest, most natural positions for his hands to fall into, even as he carefully shuts the door behind them.

Nishinoya makes himself perfectly at home—crouches in a corner to open his case, a sturdy, sticker-covered thing with the characters of his name in faded white marker on the side. He shrugs out of his jacket, revealing a thin frame clothed in a graphic t-shirt. Bracelets are wound around his wrist: Asahi’s pretty sure they’re for show, especially when they twist into view as Noya picks up his violin and tucks it loosely under his chin, picking at the strings with his index.

Asahi decides it suits him.

Noya looks up, still distractedly running a finger over the A string. “You gonna set up, or do you have this cool trick where you play standing five feet away?”

“Oh. I, uh.” Asahi kicks himself. “I thought, you were gonna...”

“Nice try, you’re going first!” Nishinoya lowers the violin enough to jerk his chin at the piano for emphasis.

Asahi sighs, pulling out the bench with his foot and sitting heavily on it as he pulls out one of the pieces he’s brought. Old piece, he thinks, performance piece, show-off piece; one he knows well, but can’t bring himself to risk not having the paper in front of him.

He hears Nishinoya move closer. The muffled scrape of a second chair against the carpet slows his movements, dries his tongue in his mouth and ties chains to his feet. Asahi feels Nishinoya’s eyes on him, he feels everyone’s eyes on him, hot auditorium lights, starchy suit jackets, stares and stares and stares…

“You okay?”

And this time, when Nishinoya speaks, it’s soft, mist against the window. Concerned, warm but not hot.

Asahi’s grip on his sheet music loosens: he hadn’t realized he was clinging to it for dear life. “Sorry. I’m okay.” His arms finally find their habitual movements. Paper on the stand. Two scoots of the bench backwards. Sorry, long legs. Three twists down, one twist up. Hands in his lap, trying not to shake.

Nishinoya’s eyes on him.

“Okay,” Asahi repeats. He raises his gaze to the notes, lines and dots on staves. He breathes in.

Raised wrists, alighting fingers, foot hovering over the damper pedal.

_What have you got to lose?_

Everything.

Breath.

Nishinoya disappears.

*

Asahi transforms the minute his fingers connect with black and white. Nishinoya’s fixed on his hands, the way they spread in great chords over the expanse of the instrument, coaxing soft up-and-down arcs of melody from the piano’s enormous body.

It’s a melancholic thing, the piece, and it settles in Nishinoya’s chest and mixes with the rain against the frosted glass of the windows. Asahi’s fingers fly, his hair pulled haphazardly from his face so Noya can see the concentration in his eyes, the flicker of golden irises from his hands to the paper and back to his hands. It’s a fold-out score: four pages covered in more black ink than silences between notes—but Asahi finds the silences, draws them out just long enough for Nishinoya to lean forward in his chair with every crescendo, his weight on his toes.

For the first time since they’ve met, Asahi is his full height, bent over the piano with his eyebrows scrunched as if every ascending line pulls at his soul through his hands. His lips are pressed together in a thin line: whatever Asahi is thinking is locked away, any heaviness he carries shoved down to let the cadenzas hang, free and secret-soft, in the air between the two boys.

Asahi didn’t shave this morning, Noya thinks. He can see the shadow of stubble over the tight muscles in his jaw.

The piece builds like a wave, receding before coming together in a roar that reminds Nishinoya why he plays the violin with everything he has. Asahi must have similar reasons, what with the way his careful performance façade breaks just enough for emotion to seep through and sink into the keys. His rigid posture gives way to fluid movements back and forth on the bench, a swaying that makes stray locks of brown hair hide his eyes. _Stringendo_. _Appassionato_. The wave crashes onto the rocks; Asahi takes the rain outside and sprinkles it onto the keys, octave by octave. _Tempo primo_.

Nishinoya’s heart hammers in his ribcage like a cornered crow, twice, three times the speed of the piece’s slowing pulse. The final cadences are like molasses, slow and lulling: Asahi’s hands shake on every single one.

He holds the last one for far longer than Nishinoya remembers to breathe. And then it’s over, the remnants of whatever spell’s been cast like an invisible fog in the practice room.

If this were a competition, there would be clapping. Asahi would stand and bow, one trembling hand on the instrument, and the adjudicators would be peering over their glasses and scribbling illegible notes on their grading papers. But all Noya can do is stare at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed like a fish.

Well. Whatever he’d been expecting, this was definitely not it.

This was so. Much. _Better_.

On the bench, Asahi spins in place and folds his hands in his lap, doe-eyed and his lips still pressed together, his eyes away from Noya’s in favour of the violin seemingly forgotten in his lap. Waiting for a response. A reaction. Something.

Nishinoya, for once, doesn’t know what to say. He wants to jump out of his seat and clap. He wants to shake Asahi by the shoulders until he admits that this is better than he’s ever heard anyone play.

But the words fizzle on his tongue, until all that’s left is the other boy’s name, with all his shock and awe and burning curiosity crammed into three syllables.

“Asahi…”

*

When Asahi finally gathers the courage to meet Nishinoya’s gaze, he’s met with surprise, his name frozen on the other boy’s lips. And then they turn up at the corners until Noya is _beaming_ , practically radiating excitement that warms up the practice room by at least a couple degrees.

“Asahi, holy _shit_! That was amazing! Why didn’t you tell me, you modest dick?”

Nishinoya is himself again, brash and unhesitant: Asahi relaxes into his question, running a hand through his hair. “Um. Tell you what?”

“Uh, that you’re a genius? That you could probably make one of those stuffy British guards with the poofy hats cry? Give yourself some credit!”

“Sorry…”

“No.” Nishinoya suddenly leans in, his face an intriguing mix of serious and teasing. “You say sorry a lot, but trust me, this is one of the last things you should be sorry for.”

Asahi swallows, and feels the bob of his Adam’s apple like he’s under interrogation. He clears his throat. “Okay, then. Your turn.”

“My…?” Nishinoya seems to remember he’s holding a violin. He looks down and laughs. “Huh. Maybe I should have gone first. You’re a tough act to follow.”

Asahi would like to disagree, but opts instead to pull his sheet music off the stand. “What did you bring?”

“Old stuff,” Noya says nonchalantly, reaching into his case. He had the same idea as Asahi, apparently: first impressions, all that. He hands Asahi a sonata to prop against the piano. “Kinda weird to follow up Liszt with Mozart, though. Not so much a tearjerker, this one.”

That makes him crack a smile. “Tears, huh? You don’t strike me as a crier.”

“What are you talking about? I’m the epitome of a bleeding heart. My bravado was just so wounded by the way you showed off your virtuosity…”

Asahi smacks him in the arm with his sheet music, and Nishinoya cackles as he raises his violin again.

“Oh, just curious, and don’t feel like you have to say yes, because you seem like that kinda guy…”

Asahi raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

Noya stands: with Asahi still on the bench, they’re almost at eye level. “How’s your sightreading? I mean, I take it you don’t know this one—”

“I do, actually,” Asahi interrupts, forcing his eyes back to the paper. “I, uh. I accompanied a few years ago. I know my way around it.”

Nishinoya’s face lights up with a grin again. It does something to Asahi; straightens his back, lightens his spirit.

“And for the record,” he adds with a smile to match the other boy’s, “my sightreading is great.”

“Good to know,” Nishinoya murmurs. He moves closer, until his shoulder brushes against Asahi’s. “Let’s try, then? Count however, like a nod or whatever you pianists do.”

Asahi looks up at him, hands already hovering above the keys again. Nishinoya winks. “I know my way around it.”

It’s under tempo: Asahi bites back an apology with his teeth digging into his bottom lip. Nishinoya doesn’t seem to care—every glance Asahi steals away from the sheet music reveals a serene side to his character he’d never have imagined. His lashes hide his eyes, save for a sliver of amber following the movement of his fingers on the frets. The bow has confidence, as much as its owner, and the sound it produces is piercing and bright.

Nishinoya weaves his part through Asahi’s like a strategic player on a team, filling gaps and rising to pick up notes Asahi accidentally drops. Every part of him is moving, his fingers and arms and hips and legs, and some part of Asahi wants to stop playing and just watch him, a spectacle in itself.

But Noya looks up from the instrument, barely more than a blink, and Asahi’s chest tightens in a way that seems more pleasant than it usually does.

At some point that neither boy notices, the rain dissipates and the sun takes its time setting, bathing the practice room in a yellow-orange hue.

“Last bus back to campus leaves soon,” Nishinoya says when the movement they’re playing through draws to a close: the bow glides smoothly over the final note before hanging in midair—force of habit, Asahi guesses—and dropping to his side. “We should hurry.”

“We should,” Asahi echoes, trailing two fingers over the keys as he stands. He’d prefer to stay, to keep playing and have Noya listen, to listen to Noya play, to keep up the illusion that whatever happens on the other side of the door can be kept at bay for just a while longer. “Actually, hey—”

“Yeah?” Nishinoya looks up from storing his instrument and snapping the case shut.

“I just remembered Suga’s working again today so I’m gonna wait for him. But…” Asahi falters.

Nishinoya nods at whatever he doesn’t say. “Next Monday. Okay?”

Asahi’s chest tightens again, like a heartbeat held a fraction too long. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

“I’ll see you around, then.”

“Yeah.”

Nishinoya waves over his shoulder and the door clicks softly behind him. Asahi watches the door and sighs: an exhale that collects in the far recesses of the practice room long after he’s locked up and gone downstairs.

He’s halfway down to the coffee shop when his phone already buzzes with a text from Nishinoya: <today was fun! youre so so good>

Asahi thumbs a reply. <thanks. bring a tearjerker next time>

<ill see what ive got>

In the shop, he orders a tea to wait for Suga’s shift to end. It warms him as much (or maybe not quite as much) as Nishinoya’s voice, as the voice of his violin, splashing sunlight into the library and into Asahi.

He watches the clock and starts counting down the end of his friend’s shift. He has a lot of things to say on the drive back to school.  


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dorm room is the equivalent of the inside of Mary Poppins’ bag—a complete suite with a kitchen and lounge with an obscene amount of bottles on the coffee table. Asahi’s size lets him weave through the bodies; Nishinoya follows close behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> obligatory party chapter ayyy  
> im working full time and always thinking about this fic in the back of my mind, so its slow making its way onto my trusty word doc but its there  
> thanks for the patience and kind words!! they always make my day!

Focus has never been Nishinoya’s strong suit, but the next week and a half presents a particular challenge. In harmony class, his mind wanders to Asahi’s choice of piece to play for him. Not a timid thing, despite his clear reluctance to play. But Asahi had made it sound simple as breathing—enticing and soothing all at once.

Which makes it all the more annoying when he shies away from praise.

In Romantic history, Noya thinks of Asahi’s shoulders, the straightened slope of his back when he immerses himself in song. It gives him a presence; a piece of Asahi straining to be heard, its short, vibrant victory when it gets its way.

In anthropology, he thinks of Asahi’s hands. Practiced, nimble fingers that, despite being twice the size of Nishinoya’s own, dance across keys like they’re made of glass.

At home, in the middle of the night, Nishinoya finds himself thinking of Asahi’s hands again.

 _Shit_.

He could play it cool—has to play it cool, with the way the other boy practically jumps at his own shadow. Tact is one of Noya’s strengths about as much as focus, though, so when his phone chimes Thursday afternoon asking if he wants to go to a party, it’s all he can do not to pound out a reply in four seconds flat.

<friday, right? lemme check>

Perfect. Very smooth, very blasé.

Asahi responds quickly enough for Nishinoya’s pulse to hum. Christ, he’s like a schoolgirl. <Yeah. two guys down the hall are throwing some shitshow, not my scene really>

Unsurprising. Noya is mid-reply when Asahi texts again.

<but id go tag along. if you can, i mean. youre fun to hang out with>

There’s that stupid pulse again.

<should i bring anything?>

<knowing these guys there should be enough booze for the entire floor>

Kenma walks in just as Nishinoya sends a reply confirming that his schedule is clear and see you tomorrow. “What’s with the face?”

Noya blinks in what he hopes passes as innocence. “What face?”

“You’ve got this dumb smile.” Kenma pulls out his phone and untangles the two charms attached to it. “Did you get a second date?”

“First one wasn’t a date,” Nishinoya shoots back impulsively, then clears his throat. “Neither is this one. ‘s just a party.”

Kenma raises an eyebrow. “Just a party. You ever been to one of Kuroo’s parties?”

“How did you know whose—”

“Good luck, Nishinoya,” Kenma mutters, engrossed in his phone.

*

They’ve met three times, including the coffee shop and excluding the near-hit-and-run in the classroom. The second Monday had been as curious as the first, with Nishinoya perched on the piano bench thumbing through scores and Asahi doing his best to nod along. The knot in his stomach at the prospect of performing together fluctuates in size, despite no voiced agreement, and Asahi keeps quiet.

Nishinoya’s voice is as musical as his violin.

Truth be told, Asahi hadn’t planned on going to the party, let alone inviting the other boy. So when Noya’s reply comes in, he stares at his phone like the message is in code.

_Thunderbolt to marshmallow. The raven’s in the nest. Repeat, the raven’s in—_

His phone rings with an oncoming call, and Asahi almost drops his phone in surprise. “Hello?”

“Asahi!”

The shitty speaker makes Nishinoya sound tinny, but ever shred of confidence is there.

“Hey, Noya. What’s up?”

“I forgot to ask what dorm you’re in.”

Whoops. “It’s right beside the biology building.”

“We have a biology building?!”

Asahi bites back a laugh. “How about I meet you at the library? I’ve got lessons after class, then we can head over together.”

“Together, yeah!” Nishinoya’s enthusiasm forces Asahi to pull the phone away from his ear. “Yeah, that sounds great. So tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

Asahi hangs up and gives his phone a half-smile. It’s almost comically easy, how Nishinoya gets him to crawl out of his shell.

For the most part, anyway.

Before he can get back to brooding, his phone rings again. “Nishinoya?”

“Real quick question. When are your lessons?”

*

Nishinoya bounces on his heels and counts the number of red cars that go by in the ten long minutes before Asahi’s piano lessons end. He gets to twenty-six before the doors open and Asahi lumbers out, his messenger bag over one shoulder. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, his hair neatly pulled back into a low ponytail.

Noya fumbles with his own shirt collar with one hand as he waves him over. “How’d your lesson go?”

Asahi shrugs. “Same old.”

“Did you ask about the—”

“I gotta drop off my stuff at my room,” Asahi interrupts; his eyes are apologetic. “Kuroo and Bokuto lives on the same floor as me, so it’s not far.”

Noya nods, doubling his pace to match Asahi’s gargantuan steps. “No problem. Oh, Ryu was curious, how do they manage to pull off parties without getting in shit?”

Asahi’s guilty smile grows a little, into something more genuine. “They’re friends with the dorm advisor. I dunno what kind of magic that guy can work, but these parties have been a thing since first year.”

“Impressive.”

They reach the bus just as it screeches to a halt, clambering aboard and dropping in the first two empty seats they see. Asahi hugs his bag to his chest: Nishinoya’s legs dangle and his feet kick in midair.

To his surprise, Asahi breaks the silence first. “So your friend. Uh, what was his name…?”

“Ryu? Oh, he’s great. We’ve been friends since high school. He’s a little loud, but you’d like him.”

Asahi gives him a look that implies Noya must have a very different definition of ‘a little loud.’ “I should have asked if you wanted to invite him to the party.”

Nishinoya blinks. “Um. I didn’t think to either. Man, I probably should have…”

“Hey, no pressure.” Asahi gives him a nudge. “Next time. Kuroo and Bokuto have a bottomless pit of alcohol at their disposal.”

“Good to know.” Noya grins at his lap. He tries to ignore the strange sort of relief that Tanaka won’t be there to third-wheel.

 _Not a date_. God, his internal monologue sounds an awful lot like Kenma sometimes.

The bus ride is short, and Asahi leads way up the stairs to his room. A tiny, tiny part of Nishinoya wants to poke his head in and look around, but Asahi merely shrugs off his bag and tosses it through the doorway before closing it again. “Shall we?”

Noya does his best over-the-top curtsy. “Good sir, it would be my honour to get shitfaced with you tonight.”

Asahi’s laugh is deep and settles in Nishinoya’s chest as they head down the hall.

*

They hear the party before they see it, the thrum of the bass thundering beneath their feet. Nishinoya’s no stranger to college parties, and the catchy drone of some remix is like a familiar invitation to have a little fun.

After all, hadn’t he and Tanaka just been talking about fun the other day?

The door to room 312 has stick people drawn on the whiteboard and opens before Asahi can raise his hand to knock. A bright-eyed boy with hair Noya immediately likes fills the doorway, a solo cup in one hand, grinning from ear to ear.

“Azumane, holy _shit!_ My boy’s become a man!”

Asahi runs his raised hand through his hair. “Hey, Bokuto. Sorry I—”

“And you brought a drinking buddy!” The guy leans backwards in the doorway, tipping precariously. “Kuroo, guess who the fuck finally showed up!”

He disappears into the impressive throng of people. Asahi shakes his head. “I’m not sober enough for this. C’mon.”

The dorm room is the equivalent of the inside of Mary Poppins’ bag—a complete suite with a kitchen and lounge with an obscene amount of bottles on the coffee table. Asahi’s size lets him weave through the bodies; Nishinoya follows close behind. A tall kid with spiky hair Noya assumes is Kuroo thrusts drinks into both their hands. “So it’s true! Good to see you living for a change!”

“I live plenty,” Asahi protests weakly, the cup already at his lips. Nishinoya’s pleasantly surprised.

Kuroo’s tower of hair is already retreating. Nishinoya eyes his cup suspiciously.

“It’s his specialty,” Asahi assures him. “Calls it an Alleycat, but it’s literally coconut rum and cherry soda.” He takes a drink to emphasize.

Noya follows suit. “Shit.”

“Hm?”

“This must be what heaven tastes like.”

Asahi’s laugh is muffled by his cup. “That’s what makes it dangerous.”

His eyes meet Nishinoya’s over the rim of his drink, and it sends a strange sort of warmth to his limbs. Noya covers it up with another sip, looking away and instead resting his gaze on someone he knows.

“Hey, Kageyama! Fancy seein’ you here.”

The younger boy turns slowly: he’s got a drink in hand, and from the slightly surprised look on his face (which, for Kageyama, is akin to pure shock) it’s not his first. “Hi, Nishinoya. You and me both.”

As if on cue, Hinata’s face pops up behind him to rest on his shoulder: he’s on tippy toes. “Nishinoya! What are you doing here?”

“Getting wasted like a proper college kid. Don’t tell my mom.” Noya reaches to ruffle his hair: Hinata makes a noise not unlike a purring kitten, and Kageyama rolls his eyes an impressive distance.

“Well, then, I propose a toast!” Hinata says, raising his cup dramatically.

Kageyama looks ready to bolt, but the mix of alcohol and boyfriend keep him rooted to the spot.

Hinata continues, oblivious. “To bad influences!”

“Hear, hear!” Noya chimes in with a cackle. Kageyama begrudgingly taps his cup against theirs.

A fourth cup clinks against Nishinoya’s. Asahi towers above the trio, the apples of his cheeks the telltale red of inebriation.

“Asahiiii…” Hinata leans against his brick-like chest. “You never come to parties!”

“I wouldn’t say ‘never’…”

Hinata wags an accusing finger. “You very very VERY seldom come to parties.”

Asahi shrugs, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Sorry. I keep pretty busy—”

“Not busy tonight!”

Another new voice. The four of them turn: Hinata’s mouth falls open, Kageyama nearly chokes on his drink, and Asahi looks about two seconds from passing out.

A guy—okay, guy’s an understatement, this one could probably be a minor god or something. Sandy hair styled in a way that makes Nishinoya suspect product is a dorm requirement, a loose muscle tee showing off defined arms, shorts cut almost ridiculously high; tan lines circle his thighs, in plain sight thanks to his perch on the couch.

“Oikawa,” Asahi finally manages, “long time no see—”

“Azumane! We had a bet going that you were dead!” The guy – Oikawa? – hops off the couch to clap Asahi on the back: the top of his hair barely reaches his nose.

Asahi turns redder than humanly possible. “Nishinoya, guys, this is my dorm advisor.”

“Hi! Hello! Hi! Drinks!” Oikawa’s already off again, unusual grace threading through the growing crowd. As if by magic, cups appear on the table, full and tempting. Nishinoya drains the remainder of his, reaching for the second one. Hinata starts to do the same, but Kageyama olds up an arm. “Uh-uh. Water for you.”

“But…”

“I’ll take him,” Asahi offers, setting down his own empty cup and gently maneuvering Hinata away.

Kageyama sits heavily on the couch. Noya follows suit with a laugh as his bangs fall in his face. “Never took you for a party kind of guy.”

“Nobody does,” Kageyama agrees, “because I’m not.”

Noya nods sagely. “Maybe because you’re like…you’re so…” Alcohol holds words just out of his reach.

“Serious?”

“I was gonna go with ‘violin bow up your ass,’ but that’s a little more eloquent, I think.”

Kageyama grimaces. “Never heard that one before.”

They watch students dance in silence for a while: Nishinoya finishes his second drink and is nursing a third (thank god it’s Friday) when Kageyama opens his mouth. “Parties are too colourful for me.”

Nishinoya raises an eyebrow. “I guess there can be some real characters here, yeah.”

Kageyama shakes his head until his hair flops in front of his eyes. “No, like…like actual colours. Lots of them. Everyone has one, the crappy music has a ton. Colourful.”

Noya’s eyes widen. “Holy shit! You mean like that, uh, that fuckin’ thing where you see sound or whatever?!”

“Or whatever, yeah.” Kageyama’s eyes are on his drink: his cheeks are a pinkish hue, but something tells Nishinoya it’s not from the alcohol.

“That’s so awesome! How come you never told me?”

“It never came up,” Kageyama replies, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world.

Noya waves it away. “Sure, okay, tell me colours, then. What colour is the music?”

He barely looks up. “Muddy. Like a swampy green, orange pulses.”

“Woah…” Nishinoya adjusts his position on the couch. “Okay, how about, uh… your favourite piece to play! What colour is it?”

“Mine?” Kageyama thinks, the corners of his mouth turning up the slightest bit. “Yellow. Not the ugly yellow or anything, the warm kind. The summer kind of yellow. That’s what Hinata calls it.”

“Hinata! What colour is he?” Noya’s on the edge of his seat with questions.

Kageyama’s answer is slow, careful. “Hinata is…rich. Bright purple, fading into pinks and greys and lilacs around the edges.”

“What about—”

“You’re red, Nishinoya,” Kageyama interrupts, looking him over: his eyes are bleary with alcohol, but honest and focused, same as in every competition of his Noya has seen. “Deep red, like that time Mr. Ayase put something in the fire in chemistry class and it burned crimson.”

“Hmm…” Nishinoya lets this sink in, before giving a satisfied grin. “I like it!”

Kageyama rolls his eyes again, but doesn’t look displeased. “And your friend is full of blues and greys.”

That surprises him. “You mean Asahi?” Asahi is more than blues and greys to him, but Nishinoya keeps that to himself.

“Mm. Soft ones, that mix together. Kind of like the sky right before it snows.”

Snow. Excitement tugs at Nishinoya’s tongue, sped along by the drink he almost spills.

“The snow concert!”

Kageyama eyes him warily. “The what.”

“The _winter_ concert! Are you playing in it?!” Nishinoya leans forward expectantly, though the answer comes fast and obvious.

“Of course,” Kageyama immediately replies. “How about y—”

“Me and Asahi are working on a duet!” Noya blurts out. “Well, I mean, we haven’t picked something yet, but when we do, it’s gonna kick. Your—”

“You’re playing in a concert?” Kageyama interrupts.

Nishinoya trails off, confused. “Well, yeah, it’s not that surpris…ing…”

His reply dies in his throat, though, when he follows the other boy’s gaze behind him. Asahi’s frozen in place, face pale and eyes wide as if caught red handed. A water bottle is slowly being crushed to death in his hands.

At his elbow beside him, Hinata tugs on his shirt. “You’re playing? What are you gonna play? Do I know it?”

Asahi shakes his head the slightest bit. “I’m not, uh…”

Hinata continues. “Are you playing with Nishinoya?? That’s so cool, Asahi, you’re so awesome! Why didn’t you tell me? I haven’t seen you perform since—”

“I said I’m _not_ , Hinata.”

And Nishinoya can almost see it—the blues and greys, a certain coldness over Asahi. When the older boy looks at him, accusation in his eyes, it feels more like a storm.

Before any of them can say anything else, Asahi mumbles an apology and shoulders his way past them, into the hallway.

Nishinoya feels several things at once, most of them drunken confusion and annoyance. He pushes through the students after Asahi, trying to figure out what he can possibly say when he finds him.

It takes longer than he’d thought, or maybe Nishinoya has just had more to drink than he’d planned, but at some point he finds him in a stairwell, two floors down crouched against a wall. His hair is out of his ponytail: it hangs over his shoulders and face, but when he stumbles his way down the steps Asahi’s head jerks up and it parts like the Red Sea to reveal

Anger.

“Why did you tell him that?”

Asahi’s voice is low, still too quiet for the rest of his body, especially with how tense he looks. Like some kind of injured animal.

The haze in Nishinoya’s brain, on the other hand, is the predatory kind, and zeroes in on his own impatience. “I told him the truth. We’re playing together, aren’t we? You agreed—”

“I didn’t agree to anything,” Asahi shoots back, pushing off from the cold floor of the staircase. Noya’s eyes are forced upward, with the other boy towering over him, red cheeks and trembling hands. “I said I’d play with you once—”

“And you were fuckin’ great! I don’t see why you can’t do it when it's not just you and me!”

“I can’t, okay?” Asahi’s volume creeps slowly higher: his gaze keeps moving away from Nishinoya, desperately trying to settle on anything else. “Damn it, Nishinoya, you’re not listening—”

“I’m listening fine, I’m just not getting it!” Nishinoya jabs an accusing finger against Asahi’s chest. “You’re being cryptic as hell, Asahi, you worried I’m gonna make fun of you or something?”

Asahi falters, confused. “What? No, I—”

“Then what?!” The jab turns into a fist, weakly slamming against the brick wall that is Asahi: the same wall he’d encountered day one. “What the fuck are you afraid of?”

“Nishinoya…”

“What are you…” Noya’s fist tangles in Asahi’s shirt, somehow, and Asahi’s hair is soft when it brushes against his cheek.

Ah.

Asahi’s bent over, giant hands bracing Nishinoya’s shoulders, forcing his head up to meet his, and their lips meet. Awkward, messy, frustrated, soundless.

He tastes like cherries. He’s warm. Every single part of Nishinoya turns to static.

And just like that, Asahi’s lips pull away, hovering over him, eyes squeezed shut. His lashes are long, and maybe a little wet, but that could be Nishinoya’s imagination.

“I should, uh…”

“Yeah.”

Pressure lifts off his shoulders as Asahi lets go of him: Noya feels strangely light.

He watches Asahi disappear up the steps, three at a time, suddenly very tired. He pulls out his phone. “Hey, Ryu. Can I crash on your couch tonight? I’ve had a bit of a situation. No, not a date, dumbass, have you been talking to Kenma again?”

Asahi’s handprints burn his shoulder, grey and blue and cherry red.


End file.
